


these are his symphonies

by enoughiamagod



Series: Bondlock is Go [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), bondlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Bondlock, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn, i will never let this ship die, john watson is great, q is named quintin, three holmes brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 11:26:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20435216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughiamagod/pseuds/enoughiamagod
Summary: Q falls.





	these are his symphonies

**Author's Note:**

> you should probably read at least Part 1, movement. But this stands alone too.
> 
> same note: I accidentally deleted all my fanfic and am now reposting.

The news Mycroft delivers Q is rather interesting, yet not wholly unexpected.

“I cannot keep sanctioning your hacking, Quintin,” Mycroft had droned at him, “so I’ve decided to make it legal. Congratulations on being appointed as Quartermaster.” Quintin frowned. 

“You know I have no need for a job, Mycroft,” he started angrily, but Mycroft held up his hand, and of course, Q fell silent, kicking himself. 

“It’s not an offer, Quintin.” Q sighed. Of course not. 

“When do I start?”

* * *

So here he is, first day on the job, building miniature explosives and writing codes and he even has his own minions, and Q admits that this isn’t a bad gig. He’s left alone, mostly, just given a set of directives and a list of equipment that his agent will need, and he’s having fun figuring out how to build these things. His brother’s mind might be built to deduce people, but Q’s mind was built to deduce machines and codes. 

He is not assigned an agent for several months and if that’s a little strange, well, then that’s okay by him.

Q builds codes, security systems, tiny weapons, radios, anything and everything. He hacks into every computer database he can and a few he probably shouldn’t but does anyway. For fun, he infects Mycroft’s laptop with a bug he wrote, so that any emails to himself or Sherlock read “I am Mycroft, and I am a brat.” He and Sherlock laugh about that one when he goes to 221B for lunch one day, the whim of John, and it secretly pleases Q that his brother cannot resist the whims of the little hedgehog that is John Watson. And almost, just almost, he manages to forget about a pair of bright blue eyes under a mask and his first kiss since he was a child playing at kissing and he almost forgets the smell of the man, gunpowder and cologne, and the feel of his suit under Q’s hands. He tells himself he has forgotten, and he might have succeeded, moved on, if not for the fact that when he goes to a museum to meet his agent, when he sits in front of the painting and feels a man sit next to him, and when he says the required phrases the voice that answers is the same voice that whispered “No names,” but Q does not turn. Does not flinch. He allows himself to look when his agent (_ 007, Bond, James _ a litany in his head) is not. The agent next to him makes a joke about his age and Q tries hard not to cry out that he had no problem when Q was masked, but he bites his tongue and answers the best he can, and what he discovers, even before he turns and meets the cold blue eyes he knows will be there, assessing him, is that Bond, James, 007, the man who kissed him, wields his tongue not unlike a sword, cutting and sharp. It reminds Q of Sherlock, almost, and this time he bites his cheek to keep the smile from creeping. And finally, finally, Q makes a remark and Bond answers with “it’s hard to know which in your pyjamas,” and Q turns suddenly at the unexpected drop of voice, the unexpected suggestiveness of that one line, and all of a sudden those eyes are looking at him, warm and welcoming, and to Q, this is the moment he first marks his love for James Bond.

They shake, and Q smiles, and now when he works every thought is _ James will touch this _ and _ I will save James’ life with this _ and _ perhaps James would like this _ and he is so inspired, oh, he builds more intricate and more beautiful gadgets, more deadly and useful and Mycroft will remark to Sherlock more than once that this is Q’s version of a symphony. 

Bond almost dies, once, twice, and Q works harder and sleeps less, and then his brothers worry about him, though Sherlock points out that he did the same when he fell for John, to which John answers that that is precisely why they need to talk to Q, but Sherlock presses him into letting Q open up, and John wisely agrees.

Q opens up on a Sunday morning, at brunch with Sherlock and John at their place, and though the Holmes brothers have never been traditionally close, “family is family”, John insists, and invites him over frequently. Less frequent, Q notes, is Mycroft, though he doesn’t know if that’s due to lack of invitations or Mycroft’s inability to spare time. He suspects both. Sherlock wanders to the kitchen to fetch tea, and suddenly it’s just John and Q, and Q feels a need to say something, so he does.

“How do you handle loving Sherlock, knowing he could die?” John shrugs.

“I know that it’s important to him, and that he’ll do whatever it takes to close a case, no matter what. It’s not fun, but that’s the way he is.”

“I’ve told John I’m not going to die,” Sherlock replies, in the doorway. “Besides, I don’t take nearly as many risks now, John, do I?”

“Yeah, you do,” John answers affectionately. “But admittedly less dangerous ones.”

“So that’s it? You just trust him to come back and he does?”

“No. I worry and I hurt and I get scared that he won’t, but I also understand how important work is to him, and that he has to do it, and so I let him.”

“And I, for my part, know that John loves me, and that keeps me from doing utterly stupid things.”

“Though not minor stupid things,” John teases, and Sherlock nods his head in admission. “Look, does he even know?”

Q’s face floods, and both John and Sherlock look at each other. Q drops his head. He’s really only a child, how could he tell his agent he was in love? It was unprofessional, unwanted, and- he feels a gentle hand drop on his shoulder, and another ruffles his hair, and then John is offering him tea, and the subject is dropped and he is grateful. Yet, as he’s pulling his coat on, Sherlock goes out to hail him a taxi, and John whispers quietly to him, though no one’s around, “Don’t give up hope, Q,” and Q doesn’t.

He doesn’t give up hope when Bond is reported dead, merely learns to sleep two hours a night and spends the rest inventing. Doesn’t give up hope when Bond walks in after months of being dead, and merely says “sorry I lost everything.” Doesn’t give up hope when Bond needs him, and after, when Bond walks through the door, alive, and looks at him with a crooked smile. It will come, or it won’t, but Quintin will never stop hoping.


End file.
